Remembering
by pastelvamp
Summary: It was messy. It was everywhere. Even when they were twice his size, and fought back, screaming for help, and later, pleading for mercy, it still spilled. Even when it was over, and it was finally quiet, and he could see what he'd done... He still didn't think it was wrong. He never did. (Part One of the Flickering Memories Series)


He had always known that his home life wasn't great. Even when he couldn't remember it again. Because even when his memories would disappear, as it had many, many times (and would probably continue to do as the years passed), there were some things from his childhood that would never disappear. He would always remember fear. Breaking a window and jumping out to get away from... something. Running. Running was something he remembered. He didn't like to do it, but it was better to run than to stay, that's what his instincts told him in the past.

Then something changed. In the darkest parts of his brain, he began to think, why should _he _be the one running? If he's the one with the bruises.. That would mean he was _feared_. Feared enough to make people want to hurt him.

He remembered pain. Being backhanded, kicked, thrown. He vividly remembered one instance where he was pushed down the stairs. He can't remember why, but when he asked his brothers, they would shrug. His brother with brown hair always seemed angry when he would share what he remembered. Dwayne, he thinks was his name. He would sometimes forget his brother's name. He didn't mean to, and his brothers didn't seem to mind that he forgot. He would remember again soon enough. And he knew they weren't actually his brothers. But he knew that they were, all the same. David had said so. He said that they were the same. Family. He promised to help him. At least, that's what he remembered.

Sometimes parts of his meeting his brothers were blurry. Sometimes he couldn't remember it at all. He forgot a lot. He was confused a lot. Remembering was hard. But his brothers found a way to help him remember. He just had to get angry. He remembered everything clearly for several days after getting angry. His brothers made sure he wasn't around other people when they let him get angry. They would take him with them to late night bonfires, and they would let him loose. They would get angry too, but never at him. Because they were the same. They were all monsters. Except, one more literal than the other.

When his brothers let him get angry (or "unleashed the beast", as Marko and Paul would say) he remembered.

He remembered pain, again. A woman and a man hurting him, over and over, again. The lights in the house were off, again. They had turned off the power, _again _. He knew. This was just routine. As per the routine, the man and woman weren't happy about it. He remembered because they hurt him for it, and they told him it was his fault. Their breath reeking of alcohol, and the floors were littered with discarded needles and syringes and other various trash. The woman wore big rings, he remembered being slapped by her hurt more because of them. But she wasn't the one that did the hitting for the most part. That was the man's job. And the man's fists never missed, even when he was drunk enough to barely stand. He remembered his name, because the woman was screaming it at him, whilst she backhanded him. She drawled venomously about how he was a mistake. How he needed to earn his place in the house. He was supposed to bring money home, she was saying. Her voice was shrill and loud. It hurt his ears. He remembered wanting them to stop. He remembered wanting woman to be quiet. He remembered wanting the man to stop hitting him.

He remembered wanting to fight back. He remembered something inside him telling him he was stronger. That he was better. He remembered... Anger.

He remembered finding a fork. His rage was boiling when he had stabbed the man in the eye with it. Not long afterwards, he felt his body disconnecting from his feelings. He knew he was angry, desperate, but all the same, he felt numb. An empty void where his anger had been mere moments ago. Oh, he still wanted them to pay. He still wanted the woman to be quiet. He still wanted the man to stop hitting him. There was still something burning inside him. He was just detached from it. He was numbed to it. Was it still anger when you were numb? Either way, it didn't matter. He remembered a feeling inside him... Or was it a voice? No. He remembered it wasn't a voice. It was instinct. The woman was screaming again, the man had joined her this time, clutching his face. He remembered liking it. He got his fork back not long afterwards. The man and woman were fighting against him now. That dark part of his brain was right. He _was _feared. And he… he liked it.

He'd hated being prey. Now it was their turn.

It was messy. It was everywhere. Even when they were twice his size, and fought back, screaming for help, and later, pleading for mercy, it still spilled. He didn't hear their pleas. All he heard was himself. He heard the countless times he'd screamed, the countless times he'd cried. All those nights he'd spent suffering. He was fighting back, all those versions of him, fighting back all at once.

Blood. A lot of it. On his hands. On the floor. On the walls. On the stairs.. He remembered the blood vividly. Remembered the warmth, the wetness. The stickiness. It was weird, how alive it made him feel. He remembered ending up in another room, his fork gone. He was in the kitchen. The man wasn't in the kitchen. He had fallen. In his hands were bloody scissors.

The woman kept trying to call 911. Over and over. _9-1-1. _Over and over. _9-1-1. _Over and over. _9-1-1. _That was funny. The power was off still. Just like when he no one to help him. No one he had to turn to. Like poetic justice, no one was there to help her. Karma, he remembered thinking. He slowly stalked towards her. She was prey.

She never stood a chance.

The screaming stopped. The pain stopped. He was safe.

There was peace at last.

_"Holy shit, look at this place, Marko! I knew I smelt some serious bloodshed!"_

_"Someone had fun here. Max is going to be pissed about losing another renter though."_

_"More like someone's mind broke here. Look at the walls."_

_"Damn, it's like if the house is The Amityville Horror met with some kid wanting to draw!"_

_"Quiet. There's still someone here."_

There were voices. People were here. More prey, he remembered thinking. Once he saw them though, he knew. No, they were not prey. They were predators, like him. He knew they saw the same when they saw him, too. When one of them got too close, he brandished his scissors, the dried blood flaking off of it by now. He wouldn't let them hurt him, fellow predators or not.

They were speaking, he remembered. But he couldn't process the words. It was noise. He didn't like noise. Noise meant hurt, and hurt was bad. _Bad bad bad bad bad. _He wouldn't let it happen again. No more hurting. No matter how many bodies he left in his wake to make that happen. He stiffened with each unprocessed word, and when one of them made a move to get closer to him, he slashed the scissors in the guy's direction. The noises grew louder, and he tensed up further.

He was done letting people hurt him.

_"Nobody move. Or speak."_

He remembered the guy with the palest blue eyes saying that, and everything going silent. The platinum blonde crouched and spoke to him, with his voice like sugar and a soothing tone. With his calm, quiet and level nature, he allowed the other closer. It wasn't long before he allowed the leader close enough to touch him. It took several more long minutes for him to get the scissors from him, though. It wasn't until the tall young adult with the long brown hair started humming that he relaxed his grip enough for the leader to gently pry the scissors out of his hand.

_"Come, little Laddie. You're one of us. We'll protect you."_

He was like a feral animal, he remembered Paul saying later.

The humming. It was louder now. It was in his ears, loud enough that the ocean breeze couldn't drown it out. And as soon as he processed that thought, the scene in front of him shattered.

He wasn't in that house. He hadn't been in that house for a while now. They were just memories. It was always memories. Flashbacks. He'd forget it again soon. As he came back to his senses, his eyes came into focus on something orange and flickering. Fire. A bonfire. There were bodies around it. Prey. Dwayne had him in his lap, and was humming that tune again while rubbing his head. That tune brought him back from remembering too much, from forgetting there were other things besides memories. He cast a look around, noting Marko and Paul picking bodies up, flying off, and returning. David was sitting on a log by the fire and helping himself to a can of beer the prey had left hanging around. After three trips with the bodies, Paul noticed he was watching them.

"And he returns from his trip! How was it? Get me any souvenirs?"

He blinked, but shook his head at the bloodsoaked rocker. Paul had even managed to get blood in his hair, he noted, as Paul complained about a lack of a gift to Marko. Marko tolerated Paul's goofing off for a moment or two, before throwing a body at him, telling him to shut up. Paul then started mouthing off to Marko, playful and annoying, like brothers should be, he supposed. He saw David watching them with a smirk. Dwayne stopped humming, but hadn't pushed him off his lap, so he stayed. After the bodies were gone, they all walked a distance to his brother's bikes. It was time to go home. Paul promised to let him pick the first cassette for his rockbox when they got back home.

As he hopped on behind Dwayne, you could see his arms covered in dried blood. His mind was crystal clear. And the holes in his memory temporarily mended.

He really would make the perfect vampire, when he was older. According to Marko and Paul, he was practically already one of them.

He was already damaged enough to fit in.


End file.
